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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427154">Space (negative, personal, created, hated)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational'>TooRational</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fall Out Boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All Pete hair eras are good eras fight me, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Feelings, Hugs, I just think Pete's hair should have its own tag, Introspection, Long-Haired Pete Wentz, M/M, Patrick Stump Being an Idiot, Patrick Stump Loves Pete Wentz, Podfic Welcome, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), References to Depression, Sort of kind of canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:27:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's a careful foot of space between him and Pete at all times.</i>
</p><p>  <i>It might be entirely imaginary but Patrick can feel it, can sketch out the width and breadth and shape of it with his hands at any given moment.</i></p><p>  <i>It's space that is vital for Patrick's sanity.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Space (negative, personal, created, hated)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by a couple of things: <a href="https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/638914565731663872">that gifset of Pete stalking towards Patrick during a show</a> by 1833outboy, and also <a href="https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/638913604728553472/petezapizza-peterick-doing-the-thing-during">that gifset about Peterick doing the Thing</a> by petezapizza, and Pete's Chicken Salad Spillage story, and <a href="https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/634864363155668992/photo-credit-robstobs-flickr-found-this-photo">this soul-crushing post by carbonbased000</a> about a line in her fic <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638850">"The way out is through"</a>, which is a brilliant thing, do check it out.</p><p><b>Disclaimer:</b> Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, made for fun. Imagine we're in an alternate universe in which a butterfly batted its wings and, like, something something *mumble* ~LOVE! Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's a careful foot of space between him and Pete at all times.</p><p>It might be entirely imaginary but Patrick can feel it, can sketch out the width and breadth and shape of it with his hands at any given moment.</p><p>It's space that is vital for Patrick's sanity.</p><p>When he was young and stupid he sometimes allowed that space to shrink to almost nothing: a nose digging into his cheek, an arm slung over his shoulders, a forehead pressed almost uncomfortably against the nape of his neck. Pete's hot breath so close it made him suppress an all-too-telling shiver.</p><p>No, that way madness lies, and broken hearts, and daydreams that would swallow him whole.</p><p>So Patrick made A Rule for himself:</p><p>
  <em>Don't let him come any closer.</em>
</p><p>He could see Pete didn't quite understand it, why Patrick would get into anyone's space on stage but his, how he would press close and sing into the faces of all these random people, but would never allow himself to lean into Pete when he did it.</p><p>And he let Pete think he's being annoying, let him cradle that tiny hurt, watched him eventually accept it as yet another Patrick thing, rather than have Pete find out the real truth: that he did it because none of them mattered. None of it meant anything, unless Pete did it.</p><p>Pete had the power of breaking him into itty bitty pieces, and he didn't even know it.</p><p>Hence: the careful foot of space.</p><p>It shrunk sometimes, to avoid suspicion, but by the end of every show, every hangout, every interview, the space was meticulously re-established.</p><p>And Patrick lived to see another day with his sanity intact.</p><p>*</p><p><em>I'm too old for this shit</em>, Patrick thought suddenly, stadium in an uproar, Pete in front of him with a smirk on his face, slightly hunched, looking ready to pounce, feet inexorably carrying him towards Patrick.</p><p>Pete is always pushing, and following after him; always a forward motion, always in Patrick's direction. The only difference between now and eighteen years ago is that Patrick has a beard and glasses with a clear frame now, which is a definite improvement but not of any relevance. Not to his brain, disoriented with memories of shows past, spent frantically trying to reestablish a personal space he hated with a passion. Hours spent in an exhausting battle of keep-away from Pete which he never wanted to win, torn in both mind and body, feeling like a stupid kid for mixing performance with reality.</p><p>Patrick retreats rapidly, back into his own part of the stage where it's safe from stalking bassists looking way too good for their years.</p><p>Pete lets him go, spine unnaturally straight.</p><p>And so it continues.</p><p>*</p><p>Pete leans in too close, and Patrick shifts back, a minute movement, a bare redistribution of his weight.</p><p>Pete notices because Pete always notices everything about Patrick. It's a curse and the biggest blessing Patrick has ever received.</p><p>"Oh, I'm sorry, didn't mean to cross into the Sacred Space Bubble," Pete snaps, capitalization obvious, and Patrick suppresses a flinch.</p><p>He deserves that. He's been relentlessly keeping Pete at a distance for years now, afraid of what Pete would do if he got back under his skin again. Afraid of what <em>he</em> would do, without a buffer to hide behind.</p><p>He is nothing but a coward.</p><p>Pete sighs before Patrick can form any sort of reply, an apology rushing out in the usual mix of self-deprecation and disarming sincerity. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Bad day. Chicken salad spillage freakout sort of a bad day, you know?"</p><p>Patrick nods stiffly.</p><p>The extra foot of space Pete puts between them for the rest of the afternoon feels like a punishment, as it should be.</p><p>As it always is.</p><p>*</p><p>He should have known.</p><p>He <em>did </em>know, at some point. Pete wraps himself in hoodies and soft fabrics because he craves the comfort, the touch. He wears his weaknesses on the outside, the exact opposite of Patrick, who feels like a long, slow suffocation would be preferable to anyone knowing just how much he wants to touch Pete. Including Pete himself.</p><p>And Patrick <em>wants</em> to touch, he wants it so bad that it spills over from waking hours into his dreams.</p><p>He dreams, every night; and such stupid dreams, too, like drawing the hairband out of Pete's hair and sliding his hands into the heavy fall of it; letting the strands drag between his fingers over and over again.</p><p>Like getting to fall asleep to Pete's even breaths again, as he used to do eons ago, the warmth of him seeping into Patrick's side, the heavy slump of his body against Patrick's the only thing anchoring him to the physical plane.</p><p>Like feeling the bridge of Pete's nose digging into his cheek again, hot breath fanning against his neck — only this time, in the dream world, he doesn't stay carefully still, or lean back away from it.</p><p>This time, he isn't a stupid, <em>stupid</em> kid about it.</p><p>He dreams of leaning into Pete, sinking into the comfort, as he mouths Pete's words back to him to be absorbed into Pete's skin again, like a sacred ritual, a full circle ritual of unrequited love and hopeless pining written to each other, of feelings too heavy to contemplate.</p><p>They're such stupid dreams.</p><p>He doesn't even get to see them through, never gets to see what happens because he can't begin to imagine what happens beyond that giving-in point, after all of his carefully carved out space, rules, and boundaries get deconstructed. Patrick has never been the dreamer in this partnership, just the hands, the practical application, the doer.</p><p>He wouldn't know what to do with Pete if he got him.</p><p>So he might as well not have him. Probably for the best for the both of them.</p><p>*</p><p>His downfall is Pete hurting.</p><p>He never had any defenses against that. Patrick has a long history of doing very stupid things to make Pete feel better.</p><p>It was worth it, too. Every single time.</p><p>Because Pete tries so hard, handles his children, and exes, and friends, and everyone in his life so carefully, with respect, and love, and endless enthusiasm, and it takes its toll. All that energy has to come from somewhere, and the occasional depleted moment is to be expected.</p><p>Patrick forgot about it.</p><p>Sure, Pete got better at handling it, better at <em>hiding</em> it, too; his desire not to be a burden to anyone, to be the person who they all rely on, providing the drive for this relentless effort.</p><p>But Patrick <em>forgot</em> about it.</p><p>It's unforgivable.</p><p>"You okay?" Patrick asks from his careful foot away.</p><p>"Yeah," Pete says, more breath than word, a pale shadow of a smile on his face.</p><p>He's lying on his couch and won't look Patrick in the eye. He doesn't sit up or even shift at all, as if his body is too heavy for manoeuvring. He doesn't raise his voice above a flat whisper.</p><p>First, second and third warning signs, all there. Patrick knows them all, has a numerated list in his head. He worries, always, constantly, cyclically, even if he refuses to show it, or say it. Even if Pete would probably want to know about it, if nothing to berate Patrick for it. Worry about him right back.</p><p>"You sure," Patrick asks, as if making Pete lie to him is going to absolve him of guilt, as if he could simply <em>leave</em> once Pete reassures him. As if this need to hide his face into Pete's neck and let Pete burrow right back into Patrick isn't clawing at his insides.</p><p>What is your purpose on this earth, Patrick, if not this? What are you worth if fear stops you from giving comfort to the most important person in your life, making a single second of his existence easier to bear?</p><p>What are you, without this yearning digging inside your guts?</p><p>Do you even know?</p><p>"I'm fine, Patrick. It'll pass soon. Go home," Pete says with what seems to be a supreme strength of will, then turns to face the back of the couch, the motion so heavy that it makes it seem like Pete weighs a thousand pounds, all of them dragging him down into the center of the Earth.</p><p>He looks so small, curled up on the couch that way, and Patrick's heart thumps painfully in his chest, an ache that spreads through his veins and burns all the way to his fingertips.</p><p>There is, apparently, a limit to how much Patrick's heart can take.</p><p>He shrugs off his jacket silently, toes off his shoes, puts his glasses on the coffee table so they don't get crushed. He steps forward, for the first time in a very long time, towards Pete and the magnetic pull he has, has always had for Patrick. Gravity is nothing in comparison.</p><p>Patrick lies down, carefully fitting himself behind Pete: knees tucked behind bent knees, arm around Pete's waist, forehead pressed to the back of Pete's head, Pete's long hair tickling his face but under control for now.</p><p>There.</p><p>No space between them at all.</p><p>No space at all.</p><p>Just them, together.</p><p>Patrick's mind is a silent movie depicting a hurricane right from the eye of it. He can hear himself breathe, and it sounds odd, like the sound is distorted.</p><p>"Trick?" Pete says, soft and unsure. His voice is the only thing coming in clear as a bell, as his fingertips touch the back of Patrick's hand and skitter away.</p><p>Patrick can relate. His own heart is skittering and bouncing around in his chest, brain trying to process this change and failing.</p><p>He missed this, he <em>missed</em> this so much, it feels like drowning, this flood of input his body is sending into his brain.</p><p>He is warm; he is overloaded; he is trying not to shake so hard that his muscles are twitching faintly; he is smelling Pete's shampoo again for the first time in years; he is falling apart; he is feeling the rise and fall of Pete's stomach beneath his palm; he is finally whole again, missing shrapnel fusing back into place, bits of him that he lost along the way slotting into place.</p><p>He is a giant nerve, overexposed, new-skin sensitive, helpless.</p><p>He aches, and aches, and <em>aches</em>, breathless with it.</p><p>Pete is a furnace, a wild fire in his arms that is drawing out the ice from his veins. How Patrick survived so long in the cold, he'll never know.</p><p>Patrick draws Pete closer, fits them together so seamlessly that he feels when a muscle in Pete's thigh twitches.</p><p>Even if Patrick burns, even if this destroys him at last, it'll be worth it.</p><p>"Sleep," he whispers back to Pete, and tries to blink away the tears that are building up in the corners of his eyes.</p><p>They sleep.</p><p>*</p><p>He wakes up clutching a handful of hoodie, his nose pressed into a clavicle. There's an arm wrapped around his waist, and a hand running through his hair gently, softly, carefully.</p><p>Lovingly.</p><p>Pete.</p><p><em>Pete</em>, all around him, beside him; so close, so lovely.</p><p>His breath hitches — because how can it not when it comes to Pete, Pete scrambles all his instincts merely by existing — and the hands retreat, Pete's body suddenly a tense line; and Patrick just <em>knows</em> Pete is preparing himself for inevitable rejection, walls and boundaries snapping up again</p><p>All limbs to yourselves unless you want to lose them, that's the first rule of dealing with Patrick. Even if you're Pete. <em>Especially </em>if you're Pete.</p><p>And he's seen the look on Pete's face when he does it, when he pulls back in respect of Patrick's space, and he <em>hates </em>it. Hates himself for causing it most of all.</p><p>Patrick is <em>so stupid</em>.</p><p>The tears he fell asleep fighting come back with a vengeance, and Patrick's breath hitches again, and there's no time to run away, no place to go without Pete following, so he gives in and hides in Pete's embrace, burrows closer, holds Pete tighter.</p><p>He'll lose this soon enough, he can allow himself one breakdown in Pete's arms. Hopefully fifteen years of friendship have earned him that much, even if he doesn't deserve it. Even if he should be escorted off the premises immediately, don't come back, please, you're unwanted, spent your last chip, cashed in your last chance.</p><p>He stifles a sob once Pete's hands return, hesitantly, wrapping him up in an embrace five years coming.</p><p>"You ok?" Pete asks, voice low, hand cradling the back of Patrick's head.</p><p>Of course Pete would be worried about him first, even though he was the one feeling bad last night. Of course. How could have Patrick ever doubted that?</p><p>"No," comes out of Patrick's treacherous mouth, muffled by Pete's hoodie and shoulder.</p><p>He is the furthest thing from fine, he's been stubbornly holding on to some half-assed decision he made ten years ago, when everything was awful and falling apart, when he didn't even know who he was anymore unless it was the band, or Pete's other half, when he was young and <em>so stupid</em>.</p><p>When had he decided to keep it up? <em>Why</em>? He would like to pinpoint that moment, go back in time and beat the shit out of himself for it.</p><p>Screw sanity if he can get Pete like this, melt into him, confirm he is alive and burning still, as he always has.</p><p>If only he wasn't so stupid.</p><p>And such a coward about this. About Pete.</p><p>"I miss you," Patrick says, the words tearing out of his throat like a confession, like a filthy secret, because it <em>is</em>.</p><p>He'd give anything not to want this, and he'd give anything else up not to have to give it up. The contradiction of it is almost funny.</p><p>"I'm right here," Pete says.</p><p>To Patrick, it sounds like <em>I always was, didn't you know that already</em>, and <em>Where were you</em>, and the worst one of them all, <em>Why</em>?</p><p>"I <em>miss you</em>," Patrick says again, pathetic and not caring anymore, tears blurring everything and filling his throat up.</p><p>"I'm here," Pete says, shushing him, holding on tight, so very tight. Almost like he doesn't want to let go, either. Almost like there's a chance Patrick hasn't fucked this up beyond all repair.</p><p>"Don't let go," Patrick begs.</p><p>Hope.</p><p>The most destructive, resilient thing on the planet.</p><p>"I won't."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, <a href="https://toorational.tumblr.com/">come talk to me on tumblr</a>. ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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